


gettin' low on luck, it's time to fight

by winteryknights (BlackcatNamedlucky)



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25959652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackcatNamedlucky/pseuds/winteryknights
Summary: They sit for a moment in a silence that ticks on endlessly before Nicky loosens his grip on Joe’s hand, drags himself up so that he’s sitting against the headboard, and watches Joe do the same. His eyes ask a million questions that Nicky can’t answer. He collapses, like a puppet with its strings cut, onto Joe’s chest, feels silent sobs wrack his body as Joe’s arms wrap around his torso and hold him steady.Or,Nicky has to figure out how to deal with the aftermath of his torture.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 32
Kudos: 349





	gettin' low on luck, it's time to fight

Nicky’s exhaustion weighs like a cinder block on his chest, something that’s too heavy, and obvious, and knowable to let him slip from consciousness. Not that he’s really trying to, anymore, he’s just trying to stay still enough that he doesn’t wake Joe.

But he feels a knee on his gut and a hand fisted in his hair and he has to flex his wrists to make sure the cuffs that encircle them are phantom and—

And the restless energy that’s building in his muscles is slithering through him, coiling like a viper ready to strike but devoid of a target.

And he still tastes metal and gunpowder on his tongue and he can’t swallow it down the way he’s done with the centuries worth of blood that has filled his mouth.

And Joe is awake already anyway because of course he is, his body has spent the past 900 years next to Nicky’s, committing how it feels when he’s asleep to memory.

He can’t make out the quiet voice in his ear through his rushing thoughts and he winces, curls in on himself, tries to control the trembling of his jaw. There’s a hand on his shoulder now and he zeroes in on the contact, focuses on it, the only solid and sure thing he feels but it’s pushing him on his back now _and his hands are tied down and there’s a blade in his chest and she doesn’t care that he’s screaming and—_

He lets out a choked sob, a half-aborted thing that barely escapes his throat, and the hand immediately pulls away. He can make out a low _I’m sorry_ , though he can’t quite remember what language it’s in, but it’s familiar, and it _cares_ , and no one’s going to hurt him now. He remembers where he is, takes note of the fact that this bed is soft, that these lights are dim, that this air smells of woodsmoke and petrichor rather than antiseptic. He reaches out blindly and is met halfway, fingers lacing through his own that he guides to his chest and presses over his heart. He feels his own pulse through the other man’s skin and counts the beats, slowly, until it’s normal again.

They sit for a moment in a silence that ticks on endlessly before Nicky loosens his grip on Joe’s hand, drags himself up so that he’s sitting against the headboard, and watches Joe do the same. His eyes ask a million questions that Nicky can’t answer. He collapses, like a puppet with its strings cut, onto Joe’s chest, feels silent sobs wrack his body as Joe’s arms wrap around his torso and hold him steady.

 _But there’s a hand fisted in his hair and a gun in his mouth and he tastes his own blood and burnt flesh and gunpowder_ and the embrace can only do him so much good when _there’s a hand fisted in his hair and it’s pushing his head to the ground_ and suddenly,

Suddenly he’s no longer being held and he can breathe and a wretched, guilty kind of relief surges through him and he has to fight the urge to apologize until the words hold no meaning and he only vaguely notices that Joe has somehow maneuvered around him and that he’s now kneeling at the edge of their bed. He’s watching Nicky with anxious eyes, one hand pressed against his mouth in a fist and the other hovering over Nicky’s hip, waiting for his direction.

Nicky takes the hand, grips it like it’s the last thing tethering him to this earth, and stands on shaky legs, Joe rising with him almost immediately. He looks into eyes that are saying _lead, and I will follow_ , and the weight on his chest doesn’t feel quite as heavy anymore.

He closes his eyes, lets out a ragged breath, and inclines his head toward the door. He hears movement and his eyes spring open before he can register that it’s just Joe shuffling to the side to let him pass. The momentary fear leaves him with jittering limbs but he fights to get his feet moving in a straight line to the door, Joe’s hand still in his as he follows close behind.

Nicky leads them to the safehouse’s bathroom and turns on the light, flinching at how bright it is, before turning to face Joe. It’s too hard to talk, his throat feels hollow and tongue feels swollen _and there’s a knee on his gut and it’s forcing the breath from his lungs and—_

He closes his eyes, takes a breath, focuses on the familiar pressure of Joe’s hands on his arms, lets it ground him, remind him what he’s doing, then pulls away, slowly, reluctantly.

He rifles around the cabinet under the sink for a minute before finding what he’s looking for. He pulls out the wicker basket that holds a handful of old, rarely used grooming devices and hands Joe the clippers before pushing himself onto the counter and pulling off his sweat-sticky shirt.

A brief expression of confusion passes over Joe’s face, followed quickly by a somber realization and he closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath before leaning over to plug the clippers into the outlet behind Nicky and setting to work.

Joe moves slowly, letting Nicky move his head when he feels the need, but they mostly stay still, with Nicky’s hands resting on Joe’s hips where he’s slotted between Nicky’s legs and his head bent forward as his hair falls to the ground.

It’s a stilted process, it feels like every single nerve in his body is raw and exposed and every couple of minutes the sound gets too much to bear. All it takes is Nicky closing his eyes or clenching his jaw for Joe to take them away, let him sit with just the sound of their breathing and the crickets until his shoulders relax and he gives the slightest nod.

Eventually, Joe puts the clippers down, unplugs them, and runs his hand over the short, bristly hair that remains, hesitating before he reaches the spot the bullet had exited Nicky’s skull, his dark eyes flooding with pain. Nicky reaches up, wrapping gentle fingers around his wrist and taking the hand away. He presses a soft kiss to the knuckles and lets Joe sink into him, his cheek warm against Nicky’s air-chilled shoulder and his shuddering breaths skating across his skin in irregular waves. 

When they return to the main room, Joe takes one of Nicky’s hoodies out of the bag at the foot of their bed and helps him pull it over his head, the threadbare fabric soft on his bare skin, and something inside him feels like it’s settling back into place.

He sends Joe back to bed with a kiss but doesn’t fall asleep himself, just sits at the threshold of the room with a shotgun across his knees and his sword leaning against the chair he’s in as he watches the door.

A day will come when he’ll feel as safe as he once did.

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinkin' 'bout how much of myself I built to protect myself from the world and then I was thinking about That fight scene and then I was projecting and then I wrote this. Hope it makes you feel.
> 
> Thank you for reading <3
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [the-sneering-menagerie](https://the-sneering-menagerie.tumblr.com) if you'd like to chat about this fic or The Old Guard, or you can find my writing blog where I take requests at [redking-scripting](https://redking-scripting.tumblr.com).


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